


Everybody make a scene

by Arabwel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Dirty Talk, First Time, Frottage, Halloween Costumes, Humor, M/M, Marking, Snark, inappropriate photography, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris objects to Peter's choice of Halloween costume</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody make a scene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tabris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabris/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this! <3 Happy Halloween tabs! 
> 
> Title taken from This is Halloween

“Really, Hale, really?” Chris groans as he pushes Peter against the wall, driving the breath out of the wolf’s lungs. “Of all the costumes in the world…”

Peter laughs, low and throaty only to have it turn into a moan when Chris’ teeth sink into his skin, worrying the pale flesh until a bruise blooms brightly. “You - Would you have preferred something else? Something more modern, maybe blonde and Californian?”

And _oh_ , that’s a mental image that has no right to punch Chris in the gut like it does, the thought of Peter in a cheerleader's outfit, a short skirt draping over his plump ass, perfect for Chris to slide his hands underneath. He is unable to hide his reaction, pressed close together as they are, and Peter grins. 

“Oh, I will _definitely_ keep that in mind,” Peter’s voice is rough, like he’s already been on his knees for Chris.

“Shut _up_ ,” Chris’ words are too close to a growl for comfort, the hungry kiss swallowing any protest Peter might make. He wants to do more, wants to shove his dick into Peter’s mouth, make the wolf _take it_ instead of snarking every step of the way but he knows he can’t not here, not now. 

It’s too public, a darkened corner of a party with far too many children present. (Children he is studiously not thinking about, children who might be getting up to things in dark corners themselves. A different father would not have let his daughter leave the house dressed like that, but a different father would not bow to his daughter’s decisions with centuries of weight behind them.)

Peter makes a _noise_ deep in his throat and bucks up against Chris and drives all thoughts of his daughter away. The wolf spreads his legs wider, letting Chris’ thigh press closer, give him something to rub against. Chris can feel how hard the wolf is through the layers of denim and leather, thinks Peter can smell it even over the cheap beer and sweat, smell how aroused they both are, the precome leaking from the hunter’s erection. 

“We’re too old for this,” Chris pants between biting kisses, unable to look away from Peter’s reddened lips, swollen and slick with spit. 

“Speak for yourself, old man,” Peter sneers but there’s not much bite to it, not when his blue eyes are blown black with lust and Chris can feel his muscles quivering, the tension palpable even through the layers of the greatcoat. Peter's hair is sticking up in tufts, the wide-brimmed hat long gone, trampled somewhere on the sticky floor. 

“Who are you calling old, wolf?”

“I am not the one dressed up as a _Happy Days_ character, Christopher.” And maybe the words would have more sting if Chris had not seen the way Peter’s eyes had trailed over the thin white t-shirt, over the curve of Chris’s ass in the tight blue jeans. 

“And you love it.”

“I bet you cried when you shaved off that scruff,” Peter licks his lips and the skin around Chris’ mouth tingles; it still feels odd, being clean shaven for a night, to have Peter's facial hair rub against the oversensitive skin. 

Chris is about to say something about Peter’s outfit, about how the lack of a v-neck to show off an obscene amount of cleavage even for a man must physically pain the wolf when someone whoops excitedly and Chris hears the unmistakable sound of a camera phone going off. 

“Van Helsing and Fonzie making out, that’s _awesome_!” a young man is crowing, a pair of large fake glasses drooping down his face. Before either Chris or Peter can react, the kid is gone, melting into the crowd like he was never there and Chris swears. Fucking _Greenberg._

“The joys of technology,” Peter smirks as he speaks, tightening the hold he has of Chris, his thumbs tucked into the loops of denim on Chris’ hips. “That photo is already on the internet, no doubt tagged within an inch of it’s digital life.” 

Chris knows what Peter is really saying. That the kids are going to see it. That his _daughter_ is going to see it, that Chris has a wolf pressed into wall, of them wrapped in each other, that even now he’s not let go of Peter, has a hand clenched in the wolf’s coat and the other still grips Peter’s hip hard enough to bruise and bruise again. And maybe it’s too dark, maybe Peter’s eyes have ruined it, but his kid is smart and she will know. But, he thinks, she will not be disappointed. Not anymore. 

Peter looks so smug, part of Chris wants to punch him, to wipe that smirk off his face. But there’s a hint of something in his eyes that Chris would call hesitation, maybe even vulnerability if it was someone else and he gives into his second impulse instead. 

The wolf makes a surprised sound when Chris kisses him; for a moment he’s rigid, but then he’s melting against Chris, the sound he makes deep in his chest going straight into Chris’’ dick which has barely flagged during the interruption.

Chris is breathing hard when he pulls back, only to lean in to nip at Peter’s ear, to tease the delicate shell with the tip of his tongue. “Unless you want someone to take a photo of you on your knees,” and _oh_ Peter’s breath hitches at that, Chris takes careful note of it, “And your mouth on my cock, begging me to give it to you, we’re going now.” 

The hunter pulls back and immediately feels the loss of body heat. Peter looks debauched and dazed, pupils blown and his mouth still slick from their frantic kisses. Chris has to fight the urge to just say _fuck it_ and pin the wolf into the wall again. 

“Did you- did you bring your bike?” Peter's words come in short pants. 

There’s a part of Chris that wishes he hadn’t; riding a motorbike with an erection is far more difficult than driving. “What do you think?”

“I think that if you think I’ll ride bitch with you, Argent, you’re sadly mistaken.”


End file.
